Pacing in the Dark: Premiering My First Feature Documentary
By Taylor Moe
In the shadowy wings of the Wilma Theater in Missoula, Montana, four people nervously pace. A highly respected veteran of the Forest Service. The executive director of the Wildland Firefighter Foundation. A respected fire historian. And me—an indie filmmaker from Portland, Oregon.
On the other side of the curtains sit around 500 members of the wildland fire community and their friends and family.
Amidst the heavy silence of our shared nerves, Dave, the historian, turns to me with a wry grin and says, "Four speakers here, and you'd think they'd have managed to find someone with some hair."
These were the moments that preceded the premiere of Thirteen Crosses—my first feature documentary, the culmination of over four years of production and seventeen years of passion for its subject. The film tells the story of the Mann Gulch Fire in 1949, a pivotal moment in the history of wildland firefighting, where 13 smokejumpers based in Missoula lost their lives.
From the beginning of production, we partnered with the Wildland Firefighter Foundation and pledged our profits to their mission of supporting the families of wildland firefighters killed or injured in the line of duty. The premiere was a chance to raise additional funds for that cause while celebrating a story that means something real to Montana—and to the fire community far beyond it.
I wish I could say I have vivid memories of watching the film that night. In all honesty, I spent most of the screening pacing nervously in the back of the theater with my DP and creative partner. Like a lot of creatives I've met, I find that screening a film—especially for the first time—is a very vulnerable experience that tests your confidence in your product against the fears of uncertainty. No matter how many times you've watched it and felt confident in what you made, there is always that uncertainty about how it will be received. An audience of 500 people who actually lived this history made that feeling considerably more acute.
At last the credits began to roll. Applause broke out across the theater. And at long last, we could breathe.
People came up throughout the night to share what the film meant to them. Some had known the families of the men who died. Others had trained as smokejumpers in the same tradition. It was clear the film had passed its first crucial test.
As the night came to an end, we found ourselves slumped in chairs somewhere between exhaustion and relief, the weight of four years finally beginning to lift. The journey to that moment was long, grueling, exhilarating, and full of stories and lessons I hope to share in the next posts.
A premiere is a celebration of the end of a film—a moment that, in some way or another, most of us got into this work dreaming about. But while it marks the end of production, it is only the beginning of the longer road ahead.